Catching the Wind
by Ominousmagic
Summary: Sherlock is a stranger, looking at himself through broken, tempered glass. Amnesia is a tricky thing. Good thing he has John.
1. Chapter 1

Catching the Wind

"John! On your left!" Sherlock shouted, rounding the corner of the abandoned office building. His coat flared out behind him and it's all John saw before he turned his head sharply to the left, catching the killer they're chasing running off quickly. John skidded to a stop and pushed off of the wall, directing him the way the murderer went. As soon as he could, John picked up his speed again. He was on the man's tail, and letting adrenaline push him forward one more meter, John leapt forward and tackled the killer to the ground.

The man struggled under John's grip, throwing a few punches towards his chest, but each one was muted by John's swift accuracy in avoiding the blows. The murderer cursed at him, making word-filled venom spot John's face. He had always hated being spat on, but instead of lingering on the fact that he was being covered in a stranger's saliva, John cringed and called out Sherlock's name, trying to raise his voice above the screams of the man beneath him. It was getting increasingly more difficult to hold down the man, who was still insistent on fighting and would not admit defeat.

"Sherlock," John warned, taking his sight of vision off of the criminal to search the room for the detective. He expected to see his friend come into view, but instead, was met with an empty room; the only audible sounds were the man's wailing and John's heavy breathing. "For God's sake, Sherlock!" he tried again. His heart, already pounding at heavy eight notes, started to speed even faster, pulsing in sporadic beats as his friend remained silent.

Suddenly, a dense crash rang throughout the building and John was caught off guard. The convict took advantage of the moment of distraction and kneed John in the gut. Winded, John fell to the floor, his body not reacting quickly enough to stop the man as he jumped through the window and out of sight. Bringing a hand to his stomach, John wheezed and got up, stumbling his way through the door. He shouted Sherlock's name a half dozen times before he almost tripped over him in a room three doors down the next hallway.

He looked around the room, noticing that the remnants of a glass wall lay shattered on the ground. _Oh, god._ Sherlock didn't lie as if to protect himself. It looked like he was thrown across the room and catapulted through the window. Dropping to the floor, John put two fingers on Sherlock's neck, and gratefully, found a slow, but definite pulse.

John vaguely remembered calling the police; he vaguely remembered Sherlock being pulled onto a stretcher and into the emergency vehicle; he vaguely remembered the ride to the hospital, and he didn't remember being handed a coffee by Mycroft in the waiting room.

"It wasn't a matter of _if_ my brother would end up here, John, it was simply a matter of _when_," Mycroft said, relaxing into the cheap chair on John's left.

John looked at Mycroft, searching for any sense of fear or anticipation, but came up empty. However, John knew it was there. It might not have been on display, but with each attempt to box up his emotions, he noticed that Mycroft became a tad more vulnerable, as if irony were his greatest adversary.

"I never said it was my fault. With or without me, he's an idiot," John said, tapping his fingers on his cup, echoing the ticking of the clock.

Mycroft pondered John's words for a moment and looked at the ceiling. "I don't disagree. After all, the greatest danger Sherlock faces is, in fact, he himself.

John smirked as best as he could. "Don't you think it's a little early in the morning to be philosophical?"

"Quite the contraire."

With a slight snort, John took a sip of his coffee. The bitterness didn't do anything to calm his nerves, only jolted him back into the reality of where he was. He bit his tongue softly, trying to evacuate the now unwelcoming taste from his mouth. He tapped his foot, an unfortunate habit of nervousness he had picked up upon his return to London.

They sat in remedial silence; John replied to a message on his phone every one and a while, and Mycroft's eyes never left his own phone, the other hand busy with the handle to the umbrella, which was pinched between two of his fingers as he turned it slightly in the crack of the tile.

It was another half hour before a nurse came out of the double doors, heading in their direction. They both stood up, distractions forgotten.

"Family of Sherlock Holmes, correct?"

Mycroft nodded slightly in confirmation.

The nurse gave direct eye contact to both men, taking turns as she spoke. "His vitals are good. He's stable, but—"

"But?" John cut in, feeling his legs growing hot and heavy.

The nurse hesitated before continuing. "But he's comatose."

John asked, "A barbiturate-induced coma?" She shook her head. "Then what damage was done? Was it the cerebral cortex? RAS?"

"There was a failure in ARAS functioning. We've ran MRI scans, and we're monitoring his brain waves now. You can see him now. The bruises make him look worse than he actually is. If you'll follow me…"

The petite lady showed them to a private room that was just off of the corner to the bathrooms. The minty-colored walls made the hallway feel colder than normal, and as John turned into the room, he let out a sigh of anguish. Sherlock looked bad from where he was standing. Bright flourishes of blue and purple covered Sherlock's face – his lips swelled to double their size. His left arm was casted, handing in a sling a few inches above his chest, his right buried under the cut-rate blanket. A respirator was hooked to the sides of his face, covering his mouth and nose, his steady beats on the monitor, assuring John each moment that Sherlock wasn't brain dead.

"We've relieved the pressure and drain the fluids from his head, so he may wake up at any time. I'll leave you. Buzz the button by the bed handle if you need anything." The nurse left, and John shuffled out of the way to let her though the door. He hovered by the doorframe, letting Mycroft slowly head towards the bed. John watched him carefully, almost concerned.

Gradually, Mycroft looked over his brother, bringing a hand across Sherlock's cheek before letting it fall mechanically to his side. He looked back up, emotions ethereal on his face. "Unfortunately, I cannot stay. I have no doubt my brother will be with the most trusted of company." He walked to the doorway, said, "I will try to come by again tomorrow. Do please inform me if there are changes," and then walked out.

John stepped forward timidly, finding it eerie that this was the first time he had ever seen Sherlock so quiet. With each step he took closer to the bed, and to Sherlock, his skin tingled, and the fear of Sherlock never waking up again – never being _Sherlock_ again – zipped through his veins like a fire blazing through a forest, conspiring against the pieces of hope keeping him together.

He didn't blame himself, he really didn't. But he thought about what could have happened if John had decided to check up on Sherlock just a minute earlier. Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't be in this mess.

He sat in the chair next to the bed and reached up, rubbing his hands over the front of his face, drawing at the bits of stubble - he must have missed them while shaving - and wondered what the hell he's going to do next.

John ended up calling Molly and Lestrade, letting them know what was going on. Molly didn't take well to the news – constantly asking about his diagnosis, wanting every detail. Painfully, John had to grab the medical clipboard from the end of Sherlock's bed to satisfy her. Lestrade cursed under his breath and became more distraught, saying that he would try to get out of work as soon as he could; John assured him that it was all right if he's a while. The hardest call John had to make, though, was to Mrs. Hudson, who he could hear flaunting around her flat, trying to collect herself.

"Oh, I always knew he would get into some kind of trouble – all those risks he takes," she said. "How about you, dear? Are you all right?"

"Me? Oh yes, I'm doing fine. Thank you." John answered, surprised.

He heard shuffling. "I'll be there in a jiffy. Did you want anything, John? I baked some biscuits this morning. I'll bring those."

"That sounds lovely. See you soon." Food. John had forgotten all about that. Now that he thought about it, the last time he recalled consuming was the tea and toast he had for breakfast. That must have been… seven hours ago, now. His stomach growled and clenched, obnoxiously reminding John that eating would probably be a good thing right about now.

Mrs. Hudson arrived with the biscuits, and Lestrade soon after with some coffee. Molly had come earlier, but couldn't stay. They settled into an easy (well, as easy as the situation could warrant) conversation, facing each other in a semi-circle around Sherlock.

John was in the middle of telling a story about a show he watched with Sherlock a few weeks ago, when they heard a slight groan from the bed. John turned instantly and was up from his chair in no more than a second.

"Sherlock?" John asked, his heart beating quickly.

Sherlock twitched his pinky and a few seconds later and blinked open his eyes.

John immediately pressed the call button, but never took his eyes off of his flat-mate. "Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, scanning the three of them like a book. His hand reached up and removed the breathing unit from his face. His mouth opened a few times before he cleared his throat and prepared to talk.

"It appears I have amnesia."

John was thrown back, and he was about to ask for clarification when Sherlock spoke again.

"I'm in a hospital, I've just woken up. You are saying a name, probably mine, and I don't know who any of you are, nor am I able to recall the name "Sherlock" with any of my cognitive abilities. Also, my head is throbbing. I was in a coma, not sure how long, though."

John tried to move. He tried to turn back and look at someone else, but he couldn't tear himself away. All he could think, all that was going through his mind was…

_Oh, god, no. _

"I do apologize," he continued, since the rest of the company in the room couldn't seem to speak. "This must be hard for you as well. You all seem frightened. If it helps, I don't feel as if I've lost any elementary skills, nor does it seem like my education has vanished."

Flabbergasted, John stepped back and bumped into Lestrade, who seemed just as stunned. The person in the bed was not Sherlock Holmes.

John was caught in a nightmare. He reached and reached, trying to grasp the cool pressure that vehemently treaded between his fingers and laced around them like the hand that's just a ghost now. It searched for the echoes that once were strong, confident – now desperate to survive. It was a lingering potency, if still there. And god, John hoped it was still there. Sherlock was a madman, a brilliant hero. Sherlock was his friend. They worked. Would they work now? People were shaped through experiences and became individual proteins that lead their lives. If Sherlock's protein was different, would he still be the same? On the flipside, John wondered how Sherlock – or whoever this was – was adjusting. Even though his brain capacity hadn't been damaged, not remembering yourself couldn't be easy. John could not imagine.

He called Mycroft, who barely said a word before telling that he'd arrive shortly. It was an hour before they finish the tests and he was allowed to see Sherlock again. When he walked into the room, Sherlock sat propped up in bed, reading some kind of book. His eyes lifted from the book to John.

"John," he greeted.

"You remember me?" John asked, hope rising in the chest.

Sherlock frowned. "No, sorry. I've been told we're flat-mates."

"Right." John couldn't help but to feel disappointed.

"I've also been told I have you to thank for my life."

Exhaling, John shrugged. "You have me to thank for the reason that you have amnesia."

Quirking his lip, Sherlock put the paperback off to the side and crossed his arms as best as he could with the cast. They had taken him out of the sling a little while ago, and now he was just left with a hard cast that he would have to wear for a few weeks. "Are you trying to tell me you're the person who threw me through the window in the office?"

John cringed and Sherlock noticed.

"Sorry," he added. "I've had some trouble identifying how to approach delicate subjects. Must be the medications."

John almost laughed at the words that came out of Sherlock's mouth. It was terrifying, and the only reaction he could succumb to was bringing a hand to his face to rub his eyes. He blinked back to restore his vision and gave a tight-lipped smile. "Not the medication."

Sherlock tilted his head, puzzled. "Sorry?"

"You," John clarified. "You've always been like this. Well, at least for the duration that I've known you - and Lestrade, apparently. He's known you five years longer than I have."

"Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Yes, his name did come across the summary I obtained earlier."

John was about to speak when Mycroft walked into the room, wearing his most auspicious poker face. "Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock said instead.

"Always a quick learner, Sherlock. Doctor Watson," he said, turning to face John, "would you grant me the favor of a minute alone with my brother?"

With a quick glance towards Sherlock, he nodded, told them that he would go to get some get something substantial to eat, but he would be back, and walked out of the room. As he stepped out of the hospital and into the crisp October evening air, John realized how uncomfortable he felt. His shirt stuck to his body by groups of sweat (probably from anxiety and the chase earlier), his shoulder felt irritated from the cold weather, and most of all, his mental health was far from satisfactory.

John had never lost anyone to amnesia. And yes, it was a loss. All of the memories that were formed, all of the laughs and jokes told, the progression of their friendship were all unknown to Sherlock now. But what surprised John the most was this revelation of the new Sherlock. He was still just as brilliant, but was not the same person. He was nice and compassionate – both of which were a foreign language to Sherlock. The imbrications of Sherlock's mind were something John didn't think he'd ever understand, and to be honest, he wasn't quite sure he wanted to.

Was it Sherlock's history – his past – that made him like this? Was that the answer to his sociopathic responses? Mycroft had mentioned their resentments, mentioned Sherlock's drug addiction all those years ago.

John stopped outside the door at Baker Street and leaned against the wall, letting most of his weight be carried by the structure. It occurred to him that Sherlock was starting over. He was rediscovering everything, stuck in the grace that was innocence. John felt sorry for Sherlock, for that is something he would not wish upon anyone, especially Sherlock and his lagniappes.

He showered first, letting the hot water pound on his body in vicious cycles, shading him with light pink skin. He re-dressed and when he entered their living room, a detonation of remorse pounded John and beleaguered him with every step he took. All of Sherlock's experiments, all of his things, would either be forgotten or re-learned. God only knew how hard that would be for Sherlock. John certainly wasn't looking forward to Sherlock coming home. However, sometimes familiar surroundings could trigger a memory, and that was the hope that John clung to.

With a bag of Italian takeaway in his hand that John grabbed from a nearby restaurant, he made his way back into the hospital. On his way to Sherlock's room, John looked up to see Mycroft making his way out of the hallway, wearing a slight frown even though his posture remained statuesque.

He cleared his throat. "It seems my brother is intellectually intact, but his behavior has changed significantly, as I'm sure you've noticed." Mycroft broke eye contact. "He's asking for you."

"Really?"

"Yes. Again, I must go. However, I've given consent for you to take him home in the morning. He's been given clearance since he hasn't had any fits and his vitals are adequate. Good evening, John."

John watched Mycroft leave, feeling sympathy at its finest. And sympathy for Mycroft was unusual. His stomach grumbled as the smell of the alfredo infiltrated his nose. Sherlock looked like he was caught in the middle of a daydream when John walked in, but he immediately dropped whatever had held his attention and smiled at John.

"You're cleared to eat normally again, so I figured some pasta would be a good start,  
John joked, settling into the seat beside Sherlock so that the arm in the cast was on the opposite side of him.

"Thank you."

John opened a container and put it on Sherlock's tray, handing him a fork. "Amnesia is an interesting thing: very changeable, many variables. I remember foods, items that I prefer and prefer to avoid."

"But not people," John asked in between bites, "and not who you are?"

Sherlock made a face, wiping at the sauce that has fallen to his chin. "If you must simplify it so, then yes."

They ate in comfortable silence. John enjoyed knowing that Sherlock was alive, and he enjoyed eating something that gradually stopped the dizziness in his head. Sherlock spent a moment with his eyes closed, gripping his fork tightly in his hand.

John put down his utensil and looked at Sherlock. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock mumbled a barely audible "yes" before opening his eyes again and looking up at a concerned John.

"There is something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Anything," he said.

"Were we involved?"

"What?" John asked, caught off guard.

Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows. "A relationship. Were we more than just flat-mates?"

"No."

"Okay."

"I'm not gay," John said matter-of-factly

Sherlock's eyes widened. "No, I wasn't asking-"

John cut him off with a chuckle and the crease in Sherlock's brow furrowed even deeper. "Why are you laughing?"

"We've had this conversation before – the first time I met you. We had Italian, actually. Well, I did, anyway. You didn't eat."

"Why didn't I eat? And I've asked you before?" Sherlock asked, desperate for information.

John crumpled up the napkin in his hand. "You said you don't eat during cases. And it was the opposite. I asked you."

"You asked me? I thought you weren't gay," said Sherlock, his gaze analytical on John's face.

"No, I mean, I guess the wording in my sentence was a little odd, looking back at it now. I wasn't asking."

Sherlock took a drink from the cup of water by his bed and spoke again. "I'm not in a relationship, correct? I'm sure the person would have been by already, so the idea is ruled out."

"No. You say you're married to your work. At first I didn't believe it, but you're very dedicated."

"So I've noticed."

"You're a consulting detective."

"The only one in the world," they said in unison. John held Sherlock's gaze for a second. "Did someone tell you that last part?"

"No," Sherlock said.

"You just remembered?"

"It seems so."

John smile reached his eyes. "That's good. Really good."

Sherlock frowned. "I wouldn't hold out too much hope, John. Just because I've recovered some minimal information doesn't ensure the return of things more important."

Sherlock's pessimistic attitude was something John was used to, so he dismissed Sherlock's statement, knowing fully well that nothing could guarantee the full return of his memory. But as a doctor (an army doctor, especially), he had seen cases of amnesia where nothing ever returned, and to hear Sherlock gain a bit of his knowledge back gave him hope, and gave him the satisfaction that Sherlock could grasp a sense of his extraordinary purpose.

"I know."


	2. Chapter 2

Baker Street was as welcoming as ever. The rising sun filtered through the gloomy clouds that were customary for that time of year, creating a cold touch to the air that nipped at John's skin, finding his nose the most preferred area of residence. He had checked Sherlock out that morning as early as they had allowed him to. Gently, John helped Sherlock out of the taxi, trying to mind his injuries. Over all, Sherlock – minus the amnesia – was really lucky. He got away from the incident with only bruises and a broken arm.

He kept his eyes on Sherlock as they made their way towards the door, hoping to see some form of recognition in his eyes. Unfortunately, John wasn't satisfied, and Sherlock remained as ill-informed as ever.

"Nice place," Sherlock said as John helped him out of his coat in the foyer. It was a bit of a struggle, but John managed to get the coat on the rack in just under a minute, and Sherlock didn't seem to be wailing in distress, so he considered that a success.

"You found it," John states, shrugging out of his own jacket. "You helped ensure Mrs. Hudson's husband's execution. This flat was the favor she owed you."

"Why would I ensure an execution?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

John thought about that for a second. "You know, I never did get the full story on that. You'll have to ask her about it."

Just then, Mrs. Hudson came hurrying out of her flat. "Oh, Sherlock," she said, enveloping a complying Sherlock in her arms. "I can't believe this – actually, I can. I knew all that running around would be dangerous for you to keep doing!" She hit Sherlock on his good arm, soft enough to where it wouldn't make any of the bruises worse, but hard enough to where Sherlock would feel the pressure on his contusions.

"I sincerely apologize for my former self's actions," said Sherlock, rubbing at his arm.

The land-lady's eyes filled with tears. "Stop that! You are one person, Sherlock Holmes – memory or not." She composed herself before continuing. "Now, I've made some muffins if you'd like to have them with tea later on. I put them on your table in your flat. Just this once!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said.

She gave Sherlock another short hug and grabbed John's hand, squeezing it, before returning to her own flat, mumbling to herself about the mess the tenants in 221C were making.

The stairs were a bit harder to accomplish than the walk to the door was, since John and Sherlock couldn't fit side by side. John trekked behind his flat-mate, letting Sherlock go up the steps at his own pace. He paused every once and a while to curse at the soreness in his legs, but always forced himself up the next few stairs very quickly, as if to compensate for the time wasted.

It was a weird feeling that took over John's stomach. It was a sense of fear, of nervousness, that this Sherlock wouldn't like their flat. He tried to dismiss the idea right away, since he was aware that Sherlock still has the same interests as before. John could only hope that things would stay the same, for the most part. John knew, however, that the predicament of adaption could only be succeeded by change. It was letting himself follow the right track that tangled him in an inextricable situation.

John pulled forward and opened the door, letting Sherlock in first. Sherlock stepped in with as much haste as he could muster, and John wondered if Sherlock realized that he was doing it, or if it was a natural Sherlock-ian instinct. Either way, he was happy to see something normal – something he was definitely used to.

Sherlock's eyes traveled around the room, jumping from object to object like he was watching an intense game of Ping-Pong.

"Welcome home," John said. He had decided to stop watching Sherlock for any sign of recovered memory when he realized that he would probably be the first person Sherlock would tell.

"Thanks," Sherlock murmured, distracted by a stack of cold case files that Lestrade had given them. They were only copies, and the evidence was still packed safely away in the Yard's archives, but Sherlock didn't need them to begin his observations. And when he needed to look at the files, he'd use one of the cards that he pick-pocketed from Lestrade to break in and get the originals.

"Well, I'll get us something to eat. Tea?" John headed towards the kitchen, glancing back at Sherlock, who was busy examining the knickknacks on the fireplace. John waited patiently for an answer, but realized that he wouldn't be getting one; either Sherlock didn't hear him, or he was choosing to ignore him. John made Sherlock some, anyway.

John put the basket of muffins on the center of the table after clearing Sherlock's things to the side. He then grabbed a carton of eggs out from the fridge and scrambled a few in a bowl before dumping it into the pan. The egg sizzled with the oil and John nudged it with his spatula, realizing that he was hungrier than he thought. After adding some seasoning, John slipped the eggs onto two plates and put them on the table. He was about to grab the two cups of tea on the counter, but when he turned around, he was met with Sherlock's tall figure grasping the two mugs in his hands, taking a sip out of his (John couldn't believe Sherlock knew which one was his).

They sat comfortably together, munching at the array of food set out. The muffins Mrs. Hudson had made were delicious, as always, and Sherlock seemed to appreciate them.

"My land-lady and I are close?" Sherlock inquired, breaking off a small piece of pastry and throwing it into his mouth.

Swallowing, John nodded. "You treat her like she's your mother, and she treats you like a son."

"Interesting," he noted, drinking the last of his tea.

There was a beat of silence before Sherlock abruptly got up from his seat and ran as quickly as his bruised legs would take him into the living room.

"Sherlock?" John questioned, twisting his neck to see the tail-end of Sherlock's curls before they disappeared from view. He let his question linger in the air until he heard some kind of glass break from Sherlock's direction. Reluctantly, John got up and peered in the doorway where he came face-to-face with Sherlock, who was leaning on the bookcase, a barricade of books and papers under his feet.

"One moment, John," Sherlock responded, his voice strained. He reached up with his good hand and took a moment to steady himself before grabbing a book off from the top shelf. Sherlock tried thumbing through it, but soon realized he couldn't with his position, so he jumped off of the pile he was standing on and winced as he landed on the ground, the book pressed to his chest.

"God, Sherlock, don't emanate any more injuries," John said warily, but he couldn't help but to furrow his brows in curiosity.

Sherlock licked his finger and padded through the pages with great alacrity, his eyes roaming over the pages ever-so meticulously. Every once and a while, his finger would trace the words written on the page, but he would always mumble something inaudible to himself and continue, dropping his finger and continuing. John did his best to stay silent throughout this whole unusual process, but found it exceedingly problematic.

"What are you doing? What is that?" he asked.

"It's a notebook, isn't it?" Sherlock said, smiling sarcastically as he shook the book in front of John's face.

John gritted his teeth, trying to contain himself. "Yes, I see that. I mean why are you looking at it now, and how on Earth did you know where it was?"

"God, John!" Sherlock yelled, making John flinch. "I'm a scientist; obviously I would have some sort of data book. It's important – of value – at least to me. So, I'd keep it somewhere safe. Wouldn't want anyone getting to it, though, would I? No, so I'd keep it out of reach. You're about average height, so I would have placed it higher." Sherlock's voice was still raised, and he was pacing now. "This book was the only one on the shelf without a layer of dust, which means it's removed regularly. I've seen the unfinished experiments around the flat. I can assure you that I'm more interested in experiments and science than a dictionary collection that surrounds it. _Keep up._"

By the end of Sherlock's rant, they were both red in the face, and Sherlock was breathing heavily, the book shaking in his hand, his thumbs white from pressing into the pages.

"Mrs. Hudson is downstairs if you need anything. I'm going out," John said, his voice slightly raised. He turned and grabbed his coat of the hanger before trampling down the stairs and into the streets. He turned around and glanced up at their flat's window, expecting nothing, but looking anyway. As he paced down the street, he tried to shrug Sherlock's words off his shoulders, but found himself unable to. He knew Sherlock was confused, and raw, but the way he went off at John without really knowing him or them made John think. Did Sherlock really need him, or was he just slowing him down? Is that really how Sherlock felt? John knew that rationally, Sherlock would've shut John out if he truly did feel that way. This adjustment was going to be harder than John originally had thought.

While he was out, John decided to pick up some groceries. They were running low on bread, and John really wasn't sure how long the milk had been in the refrigerator. Satisfied that they wouldn't have to worry about food for the next week, John made his way back to the flat, his anger finally cleared – for the most part.

When he opened the door, he looked around and there was no sign of Sherlock. He adjusted his grip on the paper bag and put it on the table. He put the cold things away first, like usual, and was able to finish putting the food away without interruption. Sighing, John decided that he'd go up and fix a few things in his room, trying to think of something to do. When he reached his room, however, he was surprised to see none other than Sherlock Holmes relaxing on his bed, his legs crossed and arms behind laced behind his neck. He turned his head in John's direction.

"What are you doing in my room, Sherlock?" John asked, crossing his arms.

"I'm sorry."

John raised his eyebrow.

"My outburst earlier. I don't know what happened. I couldn't speak as quickly as I could think. It felt like the ratio was too different. It was vexing and… overwhelming."

John looked down in resignation, and Sherlock sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed so he faced John completely.

"You can see them, can't you?" Sherlock asked, his voice suddenly sounding small.

"See what?"

Sherlock looked directly into John's eyes, two shades of blue meeting in an unperturbed mane of familiarity. John almost smiled.

"The deductions, the lights, the constant vibrations of undertones that circuit across the room, changing at every new sight and thought."

"No, I can't." John was astounded. Did Sherlock really think that was the norm?

Sherlock almost looked shocked, but he quickly regained his stature and continued. "I haven't had a moment without this whirlpool penetrating my mind. It's tremendously unbearable."

"It's a burden," John agreed. "But you can handle more than anyone I know, even though you can be an ass about it sometimes. Most times, in fact."

Sherlock let out a deep chuckle and smiled. "I can see why we've become friends."

"As least one of us can," John said, matching Sherlock's grin.

The smirk on Sherlock's face turned solemn. "I am sorry, John."

"I know."

"Good."


	3. Chapter 3

By the end of the weekend, most of Sherlock's bruises had healed, and he walked with a certain strut that would've convinced anyone that nothing out of the ordinary happened had it not been for the cast still wrapped around his arm. They sat comfortably around a lit fire – sparks crackling in the air surrounding the flames, an exodus of their lives that made John feel content. With a book in his hand and Sherlock on his laptop, the feeling pervaded, making John smile. John had just finished the chapter he was on when Sherlock's phone trilled throughout the room. Sherlock's eyes rose immediately and he answered swiftly.

"Lestrade."

John raised an eyebrow from behind his book.

"Where?" Sherlock paused. "Obviously; it's my job, isn't it?"

Sherlock ended the phone call and looked at John. "We have a case."

"A case? Are you sure you're ready for that?"

"I'm perfectly fine," he stated definitively.

"All right, then. Have you rated this one?" John asked routinely.

"It's a five, give or take."

John opened his mouth to respond, but closed it when he realized what Sherlock had just said. "You remember your rating system?"

"It's habitual, I presume. I didn't think about it, I just said it. Pretty normal with people suffering with amnesia. Don't think that just-"

"Let me be optimistic, all right?" John cut in quickly, his voice shallow with a discrepant urgency and tiredness.

Sherlock nodded his head slightly and bounced away from the living room and into the foyer. John soon followed and helped Sherlock adjust his long coat around his the awkward curves of his casted arm.

"Should be interesting," Sherlock mused. "Quite exhilarating."

John huffed out a small laugh and smiled. "Now that's something I do agree with."

Arriving at the crime scene was a breath of contented familiarity that John very much appreciated. He and Sherlock strolled out of the cab and headed towards Lestrade, who was talking to Donavan on the outside on the inside of the bright yellow tape. For the first time, it was John who trailed forward ahead of Sherlock. When he held up the tape for Sherlock to go under, he noticed that Sherlock seemed to be cataloging everything, his eyes roaming around the area, an analytic dance portrayed by flamboyant deductions.

"Ah, Sherlock, glad you're up and running," Lestrade greeted. He smiled slightly, but John could see the fatigue that lingered in the vibrancy of his expression. Poor guy.

Sherlock moved closer to the body but maintained a slight distance, allowing the investigators to sweep the area without his interference for once. "Interesting choice of words, Lestrade, but I do appreciate the intention."

"Still a freak," Donavan said, though her voice was lower, as if hesitant to speak.

Sherlock glanced up in surprise. "Sorry?" he asked, looking at her.

The detective opened her mouth to answer Sherlock, but changed her mind. "Never mind," she grumbled, looking away.

Sherlock took a step towards her. "No, please tell me. Why was I a freak before?"

John reached out and tried to grab Sherlock's arm as a motion for him to let it go, but Sherlock shrugged his hand off and continued. "Tell me."

Donavan looked towards Lestrade and John, trying to get out of the situation, but she couldn't. "You're a psychopath. You find murders fascinating. You solve crimes because you get bored. You're not trying to bring justice to anyone – you just want to see how the murderer did it and why. You don't care what's proper and what's not. You don't care what people think or how people feel. You're not _human_."

"That's enough," John ordered quickly, his voice firm.

"No, by all means, let her continue!" Sherlock shouted. John gritted his teeth and was about to retort when Lestrade raised his voice.

"Maybe it is too soon for you to be back, Sherlock. I'll call you in next case. For now, get some more rest," he decided, turning to Donavan. "And Donavan, why don't you get the brother down to the morgue to identify the body?" Lestrade's command was harsh, but Donavan complied, nodding and walking off in the opposite direction without a fight.

"I'm not a child, Lestrade."

"You act like one."

"Do I?"

Lestrade almost laughed. "Yes, you do!"

"Okay," John interjected, "stop." He moved and stepped in between Sherlock and Lestrade, straightening himself as much as he could to try and match Sherlock's height. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's go. There's no reason to be here anymore."

"No. I'm ready, I promise," Sherlock almost pleaded, forcing a dim smile.

Sighing, John turned towards Lestrade, his eyebrow raised. Lestrade creased his lips together in contemplation. Letting out a breath, Lestrade acquiesced. "Fine. But one mishap, Sherlock, and you're out."

"Perfectly clear, thank you." Sherlock turned around and headed towards the body, leaving a frustrated John behind.

It wasn't the most difficult of cases, and before John knew it, they were back at the flat, grabbing the takeaway out of the plastic bags and putting them onto the table in a buffet-styled manner. With fried rice and lo mein piled on their plates, they moved to the living room and John flipped on the television, leaving it on some crime-solving television show. Although he wasn't giving the program his full attention, John had to admit that the show wasn't that bad. It was American television and took place in New York, where a best-selling novelist started following around a homicide detective for research. The banter between the characters was interesting and witty, and John found himself laughing more than once throughout the episode.

"It's the boyfriend," Sherlock said around his mouthful of vegetables.

"Sorry?"

"The murderer," Sherlock clarified. "The boyfriend's the murder.

John wanted to be mad that Sherlock spoiled the climax for him, but felt an overwhelming sense of happiness instead. The sheer normality of their setting – their current situation – made John feel comfortable. It was a reminder that Sherlock was still inside, somewhere, and it was only a matter of time before he would return. If Sherlock could read minds, he'd probably scowl at John for being optimistic. But Sherlock could not read minds, so John basked in the contentment of his ambitious hope. With his food mostly gone, he tipped his head back on his chair, exposing his neck to the pale light of the room and smiled, listening to the voices of the characters as they tried to solve the murder one step at a time.

John awoke abruptly to the sound of Sherlock shouting. He was instantly on his feet and looking towards Sherlock, only to see the man curled up in his nightgown with John's laptop on his knees, an irate expression covering his face.

"What are you doing?" John demanded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"I'm on your website!"

"And?"

"And it's true, isn't it?" Sherlock questioned.

John was getting irritated. "What's true?"

"What Donavan said about me." Sherlock sounded hurt and angry, a dangerous conversation that swirled through the membranes of his speech. His tone resonated into John's heart and he bit his lip. Closing his eyes, he tried to figure out what to say. He should have expected this.

"You're not a psychopath," he decided on.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know that. But was I? Psychopathology is in the mind, and I did alterations to my brain. I could have been."

"You weren't," John affirmed.

Sherlock's eyes were a haze of perplexed crossroads, neurons running into each other until he climaxed to a vast, intricate burst of clarity and let out a small sigh. "I'm a sociopath, then."

The army doctor hesitated. "You classified yourself as that, yes." Before Sherlock could interject, John continued. "You also said you don't have a heart. But I don't believe that."

Taken aback by the information, Sherlock softened his posture and slid back into chair, John's laptop forgotten. The rain started outside and created a soft pitter patter against the window. It was so quiet that John was able to hear the echo of the splashes clearly until Sherlock spoke again, his expression distant.

"What kind of person was I, John?" He voiced his words with so much hate, with so much disgust in himself that John wanted nothing more than to shake Sherlock by the shoulders and tell him to change the way he viewed himself. "It doesn't seem like I was a person at all. Donavan said I wasn't human. Am I just a machine? Just a container for my mind?"

"No."

Sherlock turned towards John. His lip twitched upwards. "You're very loyal, John, I respect that."

"I'm not being loyal," John protested. "I'm being honest." He picked at the skin around his nail. "You are Sherlock Holmes. You are a genius – a proper one, at that. You like to be challenged, and you neglect others, sure, but you're so much more than what you let people see.

Sherlock creased his forehead, raising his eyebrows in interest.

"We were at the pool with Jim Moriarty – I'm sure you've read about it. He said he would burn the heart out of you. You told him you didn't have one. He said that you both knew that wasn't true. And you know what? I agree with him. You care so much about the people you love. You'd do anything to ensure Mrs. Hudson's safety. Hell, you once defenestrated someone because they laid a hand on her!"

Sherlock remained silent and John caught his breath before pointing at Sherlock with his index finger. "And you said heroes don't exist and that you're not one of them. But you were wrong."

"I'm hardly a hero, John," Sherlock said, though his voice wasn't nearly as sturdy.

"You saved me."

John had rendered Sherlock speechless. Who knew that it took the simple truth to turn the tables on Sherlock's web of responses?

Sherlock's mouth moved around a few times until he finally decided how he was going to respond. "You are immutably a buoy of foundation, John, a lighthouse in its paramount form."

John shrugged. "What I'm trying to say is that you're a great man, Sherlock. I believe in that."

"You shouldn't believe in me."

"Why not?"

"Putting trust in others is not a good idea."

John's face was a plate of emotions that mixed together, creating a new flavor of confusion. "What do you remember?" he asked, aware that that proclamation had to come from somewhere.

"Nothing that concerns you," Sherlock snapped.

Something before he met John, then.

John licked his lips. "You said you read my blog, correct?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, don't be repetitive."

Shifting to one foot, John crossed his arms and pointed his head towards his computer. "You've read how grateful people are for what you've done for them. You've read my thoughts on the matter."

"Yes, but also, _according to you,_" Sherlock made harsh air quotations with his fingers, "I don't care about what other people think!"

Heavy breaths of anger left John's nose before he spoke again. "Shut up, Sherlock, just shut up and listen to me. The past you is exactly that – past you. What happened to you was terrible, it was. You think this is easy for anyone? It's not. But now you have every right to create another person, or remold the person you think you were before. You think losing your memory is a weakness? Make it a strength."

John looked up, his eyes stern, backing up his words' authenticity. Some activity from outside of the window caught his eye, and he sucked in a breath.

"Oh, John—"

Sherlock's voice cracked from the force of being thrown to the ground. A loud blast pelted its way through the room, sending the window shattering to the ground as synonymously as lightning making itself known after the thunder. Its tremors close together, in search for its next victim. And the storm that had risen from the innocent afternoon had indeed found its victim: John.

The pain surged through him in pulses, sending his body into an abyss of disparaging memories of the war. His mind suffered heated convulsions of fear, and yet, he was relieved that he was in this position instead of Sherlock. John fell on top of his flat mate, an ironic guard from the pain of the ground.

"What the hell?" Sherlock hissed. He strained against John in an attempt to stand, but John's weight kept him down. "John, I appreciate that you want to protect me, but I'll stay low. Please get off of me." Sherlock's head smacked back down on the floor.

John shut his eyes in pain, his side shooting out in agony. "I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" Sherlock's eyes widened as he strained his neck, looking directly at the blood pooling out onto the floor next to them. "You've been shot."

"Yeah, just a bit," John grimaced,

"God," Sherlock breathed. "Okay, John, I'm going to turn over, it's going to hurt, but it's the only way I can get pressure on the wound."

"Yes, yes, all right. I'm fine, I'm ready."

Sherlock urgently, but carefully, turned himself over, flipping John to the ground. John's vision was starting to blur, but he could see Sherlock quickly get to his knees and hover over him. He must have pressed down on John's wound, for the colors of the room became a flash of neon that overwhelmed his eyesight, blinding his mind. He let out a grunt of pain but let Sherlock continue. If the force caused Sherlock's broken arm discomfort, he didn't show it.

"Think you should call the police," John wheezed.

"They're already on their way. Mrs. Hudson came back from her tea time a half hour ago. She heard the explosion. She would check on us, but I've told her not to endanger herself when situations like this arise."

"When'd you do that?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "When we first moved in."

John would have laughed if he could. He waited a moment and listened to Sherlock's heavy breathing and the ringing in his ears. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"If I don't make it-"

"Shut up, John."

"Sherlock-"

"_No_."

"Dammit, just listen to me. If I don't make it, tell my sister I forgive her, all right?"

He felt Sherlock shift pressing deeper into the wound. Instead of pain, however, this time John felt numb and the closer to sleep he let himself get, the more numb his mind and injury became.

"I will. Don't fall asleep."

"And tell Mrs. Hudson that she's been lovely."

"Yes."

The desire to go under was drawing him further down, its force greater than the pull of Sherlock yelling at him not to sleep.

"And Sherlock," he coughed and a small bit of blood came out of his mouth. Sherlock's intake of breath was painful for John to hear. "I know you don't remember. I know I'm nothing but a new friend to you – a flat-mate – but we've had a great run. Thanks for that."

With his words out in the open, John's breath sputtered out, an undulation of his discomfort. His eyelids grew heavier than he could handle and he let himself fall the rest of the way down. As the grim face of reality set its place in John's mind, he heard Sherlock's voice, distant, though his words were strong.

"I do remember."


	4. Chapter 4

The sky was dreary. Shades of grey swirled around each other, smiling into their neighboring cloud. Their ambiguous nature pelted drops of cool, invigorating liquid. They splashed on the cement, darkening the area as if they were leaving fossils of themselves. Some were not so lucky. Some hit the sides of buildings with tremendous force, while others slid down the fronts of windows, trailing behind were the vestiges of their lives.

When John awoke, that was what he heard.

It was an interesting combination. The beating of the heart monitor played a simple tune with the rain. The rain held the harmony while the monitor covered the melody, a soft intimation of the mood in the room.

His eyelids were heavy, weighed down by pain and sleep – the body's natural response in attempt to keep itself alive. When he managed to open them, the room was a flurry of blurs and out of place colors. After blinking away the imaginations, a small hospital room came into his vision. Oh yes, he thought. He was shot. And he lived. That's good.

"John?" he heard a familiar voice say. It was Sherlock, John realized a few seconds later. His brain was a little slow, but he excused himself due to the fact that he wasn't exactly one-hundred percent.

"Yeah," he croaked, and then realized how dry his throat was. Before he could ask for something to quench his thirst, Sherlock held out a cup of ice chips. John gladly took the cup and shoveled some little bits of the refreshing saviors into his mouth. He let them melt in his mouth before he tried to speak again. "How long was I out?"

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "A few days, give or take. You woke up a few times, but only to let out a few incoherent mumbles. I doubt you'd remember."

"Jeez, days. Really?" John asked, rubbing his eyes.

"You lost a lot of blood."

Something struck a chord in John and he almost jumped out of his bed in realization. However, a shock of pain shot up his ribcage in warning and kept him from doing so. "You said…you said that you remember who you are."

Sherlock's lip twitched and his eyes met with John's. "Yes," he answered.

"Everything?" John inquired, his curiosity overriding the pain that slowly became a lull, dull sting. It must have been a combination of the distraction and the painkillers in his system.

"Mostly."

"Can you stop pelting me with one word responses?" John must've been trying to confirm Sherlock's announcement – looking for familiarity in his speech, his movements – for the lack of comprehensive retorts made him itch.

Sherlock jumped out of his chair and paced the room, throwing his hands up as he spoke. "What do you want me to say, John? Yes. Yes, I remember everything. I remember getting thrown through a glass window, I remember not remembering." He stopped walking and faced John. "Bit of superfluous verbatim, wouldn't you say?"

"I just wanted to-"

"Yes, you just wanted to make sure I actually could remember and wasn't making it up to satisfy you. I'd criticize your lack of trust in me, but that's just you by nature."

John smiled, his grin making a mockery off his situation. "Welcome back."

John was released from the hospital a week later, told that with some rest, he would fully recover. Sherlock returned from a follow-up doctor's exam a day after John got back, and surprisingly, he didn't complain about having to go in the first place.

Which was another thing.

It took John a while to realize, since he was wrapped up in his own recuperation, that Sherlock wasn't quite the same. It wasn't anything that could be noticed by a random passerby, or even an acquaintance of Sherlock's, but John was well accustomed to the temperature that Sherlock radiated off, and now, it had increased a few degrees. Sherlock was warmer, in a sense. He said please, thank you, and other niceties that he couldn't be bothered with before. It wasn't until a midsummer's evening many months later when John realized the impression that the events of last autumn had imprinted upon Sherlock.

It was one of the hotter days that London had to suffer through over the past few months, so activity had significantly decreased – including crime, which gave Sherlock and John a break from their detective work. John was significantly more profuse about it than a certain Sherlock Holmes.

The domestic sound of the fans pelted cool air around the living room at 221B, where Sherlock and John were settled. The soft breeze chilled the few beads of sweat around John's temple as he typed contently on his computer, recording the details of their latest case. Sherlock was knee-deep in his study of the Sacred Feminine of Hinduism, since his lack of knowledge on the subject extended the time it took to solve their latest case, or so Sherlock had said. John had thought it to be one of the more interesting cases they had had over the years. Whether it was because of the history they had learned while solving it or the fact that they got to leave the country for once, he wasn't sure.

"John," Sherlock said, peering out from the top of his book.

John hummed a response, beckoning Sherlock to continue. His eyes left the computer screen and focused on his flat-mate.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, obviously stiff from the child-like position he had been reading in. "Your side wound still bothers you from time to time."

"All wounds do," John replied simply.

"I suppose you're right," he agreed, shifting his gaze to the setting sun just outside of the window. It was a mix of swift yellows that managed to feel sour on his eyes, but they were balanced with the sweetness of the oranges and reds of the watermelon that the sunset also produced. It was quite beautiful. John knew Sherlock was appreciating it, even though he thought it didn't matter.

"What's on your mind, Sherlock?" John wondered.

Sherlock huffed a laugh. "I'm sure you wouldn't appreciate me delving into that topic of discussion."

Rolling his eyes, John shook his head. "You know what I meant."

Sherlock got up from his chair and walked over to the office table, where he grabbed his violin case. After unclasping and unzipping his instrument free, he grabbed out the bow and tightened it. He rubbed the rosin over the hairs with such concentration, that John found himself unable to look away. It was amazing how Sherlock could be so focused on one particular thing and still remain agile to everything else. After tuning and adjusting his shoulder rest, Sherlock lifted the violin and settled it under his chin, starting on a scale that John didn't know. It was during Saint Saens's Marche Militaire Fracaise that John realized he hadn't seen Sherlock pick up his violin since before the amnesia. He was about to ask, but was interrupted by Sherlock's deep rumble of a voice.

"No one can look me in the eye. Not Lestrade. Not Mrs. Hudson. Not since my temporary memory loss. Have you noticed?"

"No, I haven't."

"Didn't think you would have." Sherlock brought instrument down and tucked it underneath his arm, plucking at a string once or twice.

There was a brief air of silence before John cleared his throat. "I noticed that this is the first time you've picked up your instrument in a while."

"No," came the response.

"Sorry?"

"I would never let an instrument of such great strength sit untouched for the better part of a year. That would be a misconduct of the highest sort."

"So, you have played it, then," he said flatly.

"I've played scales and tuned it regularly, but otherwise, you're correct. I haven't played a piece, original or not." He turned around and faced John. "I will applaud you on your observation, but remember the details. They are what count."

John pursed his lips. "Why haven't you played? Is there are reason?"

Sherlock took a lengthy breath before replying. "Playing helps me think."

You also compose when you're sad, John wanted to say.

"So, what," he said instead, "you haven't been thinking? I know that's not true."

"Music is an art – an art that lacks appreciation. For a while after I regained my memory I didn't feel like myself. Moreover, I felt… unable to contribute. So, I didn't play."

John pondered that thought. "What changed?"

Sherlock pointed his bow in John's direction, a gesture of praise. "Nothing changed! That's the point, John. Nothing changed."

Shaking his head, John replied. "I don't follow."

"I've seen myself from an outside perspective. I've seen what I look like to other people – to strangers." Sherlock set down his violin on top of his case, freeing his hands.

John tossed the idea around, doing his best to keep up. "I thought you didn't care what other people think."

"I didn't," Sherlock replied plainly.

"And you do now?"

Sherlock turned his head. "It's not quite that simple."

"Things with you never are," John mumbled.

Sherlock almost smiled. "It took me some time to come to my revelation, but alas, I have reached it. I knew I was acting differently since we both returned from our visits to the hospital. It seems I have subconsciously changed the way I present myself. It's not an extraordinary difference, but enough for me to notice." He looked at John. "And for you to notice."

John slipped out of his chair, stretching his back as he got up. "Seems like you've caught the wind." He moved towards the kitchen. "Would you like coffee?"

"Please. And 'caught the wind'? Is that some sort of saying?" Sherlock asked, almost mocking his friend.

After grabbing out two mugs from the cabinet, John threw the already ground beans into the coffeemaker and leaned against the counter, facing Sherlock, who had come and rested his side against the doorway of the kitchen. "Sort of. It's based off of getting the wind, which is learning something that was otherwise kept secret. Catching the wind… well, to me, it's more personal. Wind is arid. It's everything that humans represent that isn't physical. To catch the wind, you have to see the wind. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"Sounds like gibberish, but if it makes you happy: yes, I understand that ridiculous explanation. Barely," Sherlock said, scratching at a piece of dried paint on the wall.

John furrowed his eyebrows. "Good, I guess."

"John?" Sherlock asked, grabbing his friend's attention.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John responded, pouring the steaming liquid into the mugs, watching the undulations make their way out of the coffee mug.

Sherlock reached over to grab the sugar and John ducked, facilitating Sherlock's quest. He then sneered, "The wind is hateful,"

And in that moment, John surprisingly agreed with Sherlock. It wasn't a first, but it was definitely a rare occurrence. Not only was the physical wind of nature hateful (which wasn't much fun, John had to admit), but the emotions that extended from the human, and were shot across into an open vacuole of insecurity. Those were synonymous to a vessel that was blowing gasoline. Although they may not be pretty, or get much credit for that matter, they propel the machine into a vast area of new beginnings that bloomed from unreasoned risks and sudden endings, a greatly torturous thing for Sherlock, John imagined. But John knew that even the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was subject to those feelings. However, it didn't really surprise him that Sherlock was able to overcome that part of life.

"Yet somehow," John replied, smiling, his hands warm against the cut, "we manage."

-End-

_A/N: _

_Sorry for the long wait on this one! Finals hit me harder than expected, but I got through them! Thanks for reading and sticking with me! This chapter is unbeta'd, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know!_

_Hope you enjoyed. If you liked this story, or my writing, I post dabbles on my Tumblr: .com. There, you can also see future projects. :)_

_-Maddie_

_P.S. The piece Sherlock plays is super fun. We played it in city orchestra, and I had a blast. It's on Youtube, if you'd like to hear what it sounds like._


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